I cannot jump your car, but I can fix your rear window


The other day I was dropping my 5-year old off at preschool. On my way to the parking lot, what do I see? A flock of ladies dealing with jumping a minivan (of course). I was parked right next to the jumpee. There are at least three ladies from the church (it’s a Lutheran preschool, much to my atheistic chagrin) standing there working on the minivan, cables and all. I did not hesitate … To get into my car. What’s that you say? That is not very butch of me?

Well, you are absolutely right. I am as helpless as all car repair shops assume women to be – when it comes to combustible engines. That’s right. I said it. I am worthless. Helpless. Well, not helpless; I have AAA – and I’m not afraid to use it!

My gorgeous fiancé is not worthless when it comes to combustible engines, by the way.

It was a goal of hers to teach me how to change a tire when we started dating. I said, “Why do I need to know how to do that? I have AAA. Isn’t that butch enough?” Well, no, as I turns out. A butch needs to know how to change a tire – even if she would never ever need to do it. “What if you see someone who needs help?” she asked me, trying to prove her case. “Well, then I would offer to call AAA for them!” I’m like, what the hell do I pay them for?

Suffice it to say that I learned how to change a tire. And I still have my AAA membership. Heh.

Anyway, cars are really not my thing. I can fix ANYTHING in the house, mind you. I’ve taken out and installed toilets, sinks, garbage disposals, ceiling fans, door locks, moulding, flagstone, even added new wall sconces (and ran the wire to create new outlets for them). But the car? Not so much.

So I see these straight ladies in distress – even holding a baby – and I am absolutely unmoved to help. Afterall, I really have nothing to add. I don’t know shit about jumping a car. I have cables, of course, because it is butch to be prepared and I will happily loan them to any damsel or dude in distress. But they had cables and that’s really where my usefulness stops.

So I got in my car … Without offering to help the helpless looking straight ladies. Another woman in front of me actually offered to hold the jumpee’s infant. The helper had her own baby in a pouch and a dog on a leash. I suppose I could have offered my holding services, but all seemed covered.

So, I snuck into my car away from the religious (I assume) lady in distress. I did not don my knight in shining armor all butch like to rescue her.

I was ok with that.

Ironically, however, my rear window which is part of my tailgate broke that very morning. My gorgeous fiancé was helping me load the car – kids require so much crap – and my back window (part of the tailgate) broke. Shit!

I had to drive to LA that morning. And it was raining. This would not do. Would not do at all. It must be fixed. The duct tape came out and we got it safely taped. After I dropped the kids off at school – and did not help the straight damsel in distress – I headed for the automotive store…and then the dealer. Part in hand, I was confident that I could fix it myself.

A couple of tools, and several awkward positions, later, I fixed my window! This was very, very butch of me. No help. No dealer. No shop. Just me mano a mano with my machine. I won!

Such an interesting contrast with the morning and the flock of ladies in distress. Lol.

Note: I assume the women need help. It is quite possible that they did not. I reacted in the moment based on the assumption that they did, so that’s how I’ve recounted it. Forgive me if you are a woman who does know how to do these things. Much respect!

It is butch to fix your own car – unless it involves the engine or any parts requiring oil. Be butch.


About Tristan Higgins, aka Butch Jaxon

I am a butch. This blog is about what I think. If you do not know what butch means, you are probably on the wrong blog. In the interests of inclusion, though, I can tell you that “butch” means a lesbian that is big, strong, tough, more macho, less girly. Of course, there are no hard and fast rules – which is an ongoing theme in my blog (and in the comments), but those are the basics. A butch will most likely not wear makeup. A butch is often referred to as “sir” by someone who is not paying attention. What else? I am, after all, not just a butch. I am happily married to the most amazing woman ever, and the mother of two fantastic kids. I am also a lover of, in no particular order, beer, bow ties, breasts, movies, hiking, bookstores, travel, dogs, geocaching, polar bears, the gym, music, gadgets, and more. By day, I am an intrepid corporate entertainment lawyer. Although I try hard not to be labeled as such – sporting a bleached Mohawk, for example. Think more entertainment and less corporate. By night, bring it all on! In my blog, I talk about things from a butch perspective, but this is not just for butches. We all love our femmes. Please do not let me offend femmes, mine in particular! If you like what you read here, I hope you will comment and let me know what you think. If you do not like what you read, well, what the hell do I care? Start your own blog. Be Butch. View all posts by Tristan Higgins, aka Butch Jaxon

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